The Augustus Waters Experience: By Caroline Mathers
by MrsMellarkkk
Summary: Before Hazel Grace Lancaster, Augustus Waters commitment belonged to another. Short story from the point of view of Augstus's former girlfriend, Caroline Mathers, from the day in which she got her diagnosis, to the most detrimental stages of her illness and of course, a detailed account of her brief relationship with the one and only Gus himself.


**Authors Note: Would just like to dedicate this piece to my wonderful Granddads. Firstly to my Granddad John, who lost his battle to lung cancer on the 18th of February 2010, and secondly to my Granddad Bruce, who was diagnosed with stomach cancer on the 18th of February this year, and is due to undergo his first minor surgery (key hole) this Tuesday. I love you both so much. Fuck you, cancer. **

Freshman year is often a prominent one in an individual's life. For some, it is the year they experience their very first romance. For others, the time in which they begin to find or perhaps re-invent themselves, discovering hobbies and interests compatible to them that they had never thought of before, mingling with all sorts of personalities that they had previously never expected to converse with. For me, though, the prominence of freshman year came in a considerably negative form. You see, two days before my set enrollment at North Central, I was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor.

I'd collapsed. On stage. In front of an audience of over three hundred spectators. I had been a contempory and lyrical dancer since the age of three. Despite these being my sections of expertise, I could also show varied amounts of talent in acrobatics, tap, jazz and basic ballet. The day my life was diagnosed as deceased was the day the competition group I had been a significant member of since my seventh birthday, had traveled thousands of miles across the country in order to attend America's national dance championships. I'd held a national title a few times before, once as a minor and twice as a junior, but not yet as a senior. In fact, this was my first year at being to legally enter in the senior category, still being a thirteen year old until the clock struck twelve, yet my ruthless dance teacher and choreographer, Ms Amiee Lee, was intent of my success, despite my inexperience. We'd traveled to New York the evening before, 'we' being I, the rest of the team and at least one of my fellow team mates legal guardians, including my mother of course. My sister Bella also had a place on Ms Aimee's team, not a place as secure as my own, but a place never less. She had also been assigned a solo, her very first at such a significant competition. It was evident that this responsibility not just unsettled her, but my mother also. Most of the parents are more overcome with nerves than their child when they only have one offspring dancing in representation of Ms Aimee's studio, let alone two competing at nationals, of all places.

I was anxious too, of course, but not in the way I usually was. In the numerous previous competitions I had taken part in, I was afraid of forgetting my steps or messing up a particularly complicated turn. This year, however, was different. This year, I lived in consistent fear that the painful rappa-tap-tapping in my scull, an ache which was so significant it dictated the vast majority of my concentration, would not be the explanation behind my failure. The few times I had failed under Ms Aimee's respectable representation before had not, to say the least, been pretty. Despite her ruthlessness and severe attitude to teaching, she was by far one of the most successful women in all of Indiana, and still is, I expect. Studio Bleu dance school one of the highest ranked dance studio's in all of the country. I had always been made very aware, from both Ms Aimee and my mother, that to dance on the studio's competitive junior team was far more than just a positive experience to add to my résumé. In fact, to say the opportunity was even a privilege was an understatement, apparently. To be choreographed and critiqued by Ms Aimee Lee was an honour and a nobility, which only added to the anxiety sinisterly brewing in my stomach. Of course, I had made a feeble attempt at informing my mother of the ache before we had left for the airport, claiming that the pressure being forced against my scull could only be put in to a comparison of being repeatedly struck by something firm, with no helpful resolution. I'd been having these migraines, as mom refereed to them, for months now, and having suffered from these herself once 'evoking in to womanhood', she saw no real cause for concern. I remember replying, stating that if every pre-teen girl had to put up with such a monstrosity whilst developing, then medical science are lazy to of not of discovered something to ease the pain by now. Mom just tutted and gave a breathy laugh, claiming that not all growing girls suffered from headaches, but the symptom was fairly common and very much hereditary, and that I over exaggerating the agony. Afterwards, during a bout of time in which the thumping had softened a little, I wondered if my mother was right, and that I was simply imagining the intensity of the pain. However, I was not shown mercy for long, and as I sit in our assigned dressing room, awaiting my turn to run through my dance under Aimee's supervision one last time, any doubt I may have that this sensation is anything other than significantly unordinary is immediately revoked.

I am sandwiched between Bella and my frequent duet partner and close friend, Julia Monogoly, and from first glance, the scene may look no less than one would expect of our situation. Mothers rushing around, putting the finishing touches to their children's hair and make-up, offering up one last piece of advice. Us competitors, five girls not including to myself and two males, nervously nibbling at our nail beds, inwardly running our routines one more time in our minds as Ms Aimee busies herself elsewhere. However, if you zoom in on the thirteen year old female, second in line for the instructors attention, you will see that the horrified expression dictating her face is far more than one of suppressed anxiety. This is because, instead, it is one attempting to suppress the roaring anguish that is harboured within her. I tried desperately to keep my misery hidden, to mask my distress with determination and fierce concentration, but of course, I have no idea if my efforts are successful, as everybody is too busy with other matters. Before I know it, Bella has finished running her routine, a sassy little jazz number, and Ms Aimee is summoning me before her. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately if you think of how this day ends, she is so focused on getting those of us performing solo's backstage on time, all I have to do is a couple of wobbly spins and she is satisfied. As soon as I have ran the cropped version of my dance, Aimee immediately starts hurrying us out of the dressing room door, down the corridor of the high school and into the dim room that warranted as the back of the stage. Minutes later, after subjecting each of us four soloists to a pep talk which is better described as a stern lecture, or perhaps a disguised threat, we are left alone to make our final preparations. The pressure and the on foot journey to the back staging area seems to have only worsened my condition. Now the room is gradually beginning to spin before me, throwing me off balance and forcing me to cling to my fellow soloists, a petite junior named Mindy, shoulder in order to steady myself. I am vaguely aware of my teammate asking if I am alright, suggesting I take a seat on one of the stalls the competitions directors have set out for us. Her tone is faint and slurred though, as if the ten year old is whispering whilst intoxicated, this being of course, a next to impossible scenario, but even still, she does not sound composed nor regular. And neither does the room in which I am stand, twirling as boldly and with as much force as I would be expected to muster just minutes from now, the scenery of children in vibrant costumes, twisting and turning, readying themselves for competition, racing before my eyes at an incredible speed.

And then I'm called.

I was so lost in that dizzy daze, I failed to realize that only I and a handful of other teenagers competing for my crown are still lingering back here. For a second, I am brought back to reality, and it is almost as though this roundabout of absurdity has finally been halted, but only for a second. I force myself to take to the stage, composing my body as steadily as I can, taking my place center stage, readying my arms the way Ms Aimee instructed me to. The music starts to swiftly, startling my disorientated state, catching me of guard. Within seconds of trying to catch up with the melody, I have tumbled to the floor in a heap, my breathing faint and pulse sprinting rapidly, unconscious.

* * *

When I wake up, I am still dressed in my competition costume. It is a plain ivory leotard overcastted with a tutu in a slightly paler hue. The dance was supposed to present an aura of purity and innocence, a theme Ms Aimee told me would work to my advantage, as I was bound to be one of the most naïve and childlike of the senior category. I had always loved plain costumes, as I somehow felt the more simple the clothing and make-up, the more highlighted the performance. I had adored the dance too, complex yet elegant and gentle movements, merged together to create a memorizing routine fit to obtain this year's senior title. Until I went a passed out half way through it, that is. Anyway, what I am wearing is this first thing I notice. The second being the fact I seem to be buried beneath the placid sheets of a hospital bed. I assume this because I recognise the distinctive smell, that always had seemed to dictate my nose the few times I had visited an infirmary prior to this occasion. The walls are as blank as the sheets and my outfit, the floor gleaming with shine from being recently polished, the bright light hanging over me blinding my adjusting eyes. Yes, there was no doubt that this place was some sort of clinic.

I am just about to call out for my mother, when she appears in the doorway of the room, accompanied by a serious looking man in a white coat. I spy a young nurse lingering behind them, anxiously gripping a wooden clipboard so hard her knuckles begin to turn bloodless. Just by observing the expressions on their faces, I know something horrible has happened. I just never imagined it could be something as horrific as what comes out of the man's mouth, as he perches his rear on the bottom of the bed, his expression melting, creating one that reflects sympathy, pity, regret. "Caroline, I'm afraid…I'm afraid your test results presented cause for great concern." It is only then I notice my mother's tear streaked face, her trembling lower lip and drained air. It is only then I realize the horrible thing is to do with me. "Mom? What's going on?" My curiosity triggers my mother to erupt in to floods of tears, creating yet more ashen streaks to emerge on her face. From her cheekbones to the forefront of her chin, pale grey strips of sodden mascara dictate her appearance. I want to run to her, to embrace and reassure her, but the tension has paralyzed me. The nervous nurse ushers my sobbing mother out of the room, leaving me alone with who I assume to be some sort of doctor. "Caroline. I'm very sorry, but when you were passed out, we took an MRI scan, do you know what that is?" I shake my head. "It's a scan, like an x-ray, of your whole body. Including your brain…and well…your results, they are very concerning." The doctor pulls out a picture the size of a postcard from his stack of papers. "This" he says, indicating at the photograph. "Is your brain." I take the photo from his outstretched hand. Immediately, my eyes are drawn three patches of darkened camera grain, three peculiarly shaped shadows. "The test determines that you have three significant growths on your brain, Caroline, do you know what this means?" I shake my head again, because I don't, not really. Sure, I'd heard the word used on one of my mother's corny medical drama's from time to time but…"Its cancer."

* * *

Just a five weeks earlier, a similar situation had occurred. It was the evening of my middle school leavers dance. I had spent the afternoon with my best friend Janie Thomas, experimenting with make-up and dreaming about slow dancing with Jeremy Ackley, the cutest and most popular boy either of us had ever encountered throughout our time at the school. About an hour before we were due to leave, and whilst the two of us were in mid conversation about being kissed by the infamous Jeremy, Janie pulled out a bottle of rum from her rucksack. "I snuck it from my Dads stash. He won't miss it. Besides, we're a lot more likely to pull Jeremy Ackley with a little confidence boost, right?" My friend giggled mischievously, ever the rebellious one, was Janie. I wasn't going to look limp and refuse the offer of something as exciting and foreign as alcohol, so I allowed her to fetch two glasses from downstairs and pour them full with the powerful smelling substance. Within seconds, I spit the mouthful I have taken of the foul tasting solution, which causes Janie to erupt in to a burst of hearty laughter. "Come on, Caroline. It's not_ supposed_ to taste_ good_." I am about to ask why people choose to drink it if it tasted so awful, but before I can, Janie protests. "Trust me, just finish the glass and it'll be worth it, I promise. I can't be getting drunk alone now, can I? How much of a loser would that make me?" She jokes.

"A rather big one." I reply, my voice weaved with amusement. Reluctant to be patronized, and hopeful about Janie's promise, I manage to finish the alcohol just before my mother comes up to tell us it's time to leave. I notice her raise her perfectly plucked eyebrows at the fruity aroma of my bedroom, but she says nothing, despite the fact Janie has had two and a half glasses more than myself, and is beginning to behave as though she may not be entirely sober. I myself feel no more than a tiny bit warmer within and a little unbalanced. The room seems to be swaying slightly, and the task of making my way down the stairs and into moms car is not an easy one. By the time the car pulls up in front of the middle school, the wobbling of my surroundings have increased significantly and I am beginning to feel nauseous. Blaming it on the drink though, I behave as if everything is as it should be, even when my mother drives away and I am left with an increasingly intoxicated Janie on the sidewalk. It takes us a good few minutes to reach the front of the building, arms slung round each other in order to steady ourselves despite the fact Janie was to out of it to be aware of my discomfort, we stumble through the doors that lead to reception, and onward to the gymnasium. Within seconds of arriving, my uneasiness is far from subsiding, and I am forced to make a dash to the bathroom. I vomit violently until every last scrap of food I have digested in the last twenty four hours makes a reappearance. I allow myself a moment to compose myself, wipe the tears and cold sweat from my face, fix my make-up and hair, resume steady breaths.

For a while, I feel a little better. The relief that hit after my throwing up had been instant, and oh, so wonderful. But as the evening dragged on, the dizziness began to seep back. It reminded me of when I was still in elementary school, and my family were staying in Italy, as we did at some point every summer, and my father's mother who is from there, decided that it would be a fun idea to hire a boat and spend the afternoon sailing the "calming Mediterranean waters". Needless to say, the trip was far from pleasurable, the ocean choppy and rough instead of soothing and still like my grandmother had suggested. I was sick twice on that trip, and very almost would of a third time, if we hadn't headed back when we had. When I had thrown up then, I was also granted some merciful peace from my distress, however, it was nothing in comparison to the relief that struck me that night. However, the sickness came back stronger and more significant than it had on the boat. Within half an hour, I am feeling like I am destined to vomit again, and just as I am reluctantly making my way back to the bathroom, I fall. As hard as I try, I cannot heave myself back upright, and it's not long before the vomit threatening to escape my throat comes crashing out to join me. My eyelids are as heavy and I feel weak and drained of any substance. This time I do not pass out, but I am close.

The school called my parents. Both Mom and Dad came to collect me, which is an indication something very serious has happened has happened in my family, as my father always has been somewhat of an workaholic. He rarely attended open house or parents evening, and I can't recall one occasion in which he watched Bella or I dance in a competition. However, he came along for this. Hoisted up by two members of staff, I notice him staring somberly in to the distance behind the steering wheel, catch the flush of scarlet spread across my mother's face in the passenger's seat. When she spots us stumbling awkwardly down the path, at once she rushes to my aid. Her expression reflects one of embarrassment and shame. Anger and reluctance to retrieve me, yet she does not breathe a word until I am safely secured in the car. "I knew _you'd_ been drinking." She mutters. "I _knew_ it, and I decided to let it go, because I thought you'd be sensible enough not to get yourself in to a state like this." Her composed tone, her steady reasonable words, scare me more than her yelling at me ever could. Mom has never been the calm and composed parent. "I had one glass Mom, one glass of rum, that's all, I promise…"

"Bullshit!" She suddenly bellows, causing both my father and I to quake in our seats. "You're practically paralytic, Caroline! Oh for goodness sake…and we've got a plane to catch in a few hours…oh my god…"

"What? I thought we weren't going until Monday?" I am of course, talking about our annual trip to Italy to visit my father's relatives. "Not anymore. We brought it forward…your father worked so hard his boss allowed him some extra holiday time and this…this is how you repay him?" She's sobbing now. I am surprised it has taken so long. My mother is a very emotional woman. My father, who is famous for being peaceful yet outspoken, is making no attempt to voice his own opinions on the matter. In fact, he doesn't say anything the entire journey home, which, in my opinion, was worse than my mothers scolding's. He was so disappointed by behaviour, so disgusted by my actions, that he could hardly bare to look in my direction, let alone make conversation with me. Still perplexed by the affect such a tiny amount of alcohol had had on my brain, I stumble in to bed as soon as mom puts the key into our front door. The room is still spinning, but a little more softly now, it's almost as if I am lying in one of those rocking cradles mothers use to rock their newborn to sleep.

The worlds still swaying slightly when I fall in to a slumber, and it is still jolting in a similar manner when I wake the next morning. I put it down to a hangover, despite the fact the discomfort is no different to what it had been the night before. At six am, we make for the airport in a stony silence. Even my younger brother, Mikey, is smart enough to recognise the tension between my parents and I, a tension that is only sliced when we are all settled on the plane, and my mom comes to give me one last "telling off." "I know you're suffering for it now, sweetie, so we'll put it behind us and pretend the whole thing never happened, well, until we get home, anyway." She finishes, punctuating her lecture with a mischievous wink, and goes back to fussing over Mikey's seatbelt. What she did not know, however, was that I spent the first four days of the trip suffering from my so called "hangover".

* * *

"Caroline, Caroline, sweetheart, do you understand what I'm telling you?" I force myself to nod abruptly at the doctor. "We really don't know the exact stages of the tumor at the moment, we are thinking at least stage two, possibly stage three, which means that your condition is significantly lethal, however, we remain hopeful."

"I'm going to die." I seem to of lost the ability to filter my thoughts. The doctors expression turns ever more somber, which I originally didn't think could be possible. "We don't know that yet, not for certain. What we do know, is that we need to get you back home and starting treatment as soon as possible."

"I'm not in Indianapolis?" I reply, the memory of the trip to New York seemingly erased from my memory. The doctor shakes his head.

"No, but you will be soon enough. Its standard procedure to keep you over night, but we should be ready to discharge you in to the care of a hospital in Indianapolis first thing tomorrow morning." He is saying it all so matter of factly, in a immaculate, steady monotone, despite the fact his expression reeks of compassion. I don't even know this man's name, haven't a clue about who he is and what he does apart from shattering lives, yet he is the one who is delivering this news. Not my mother, who I suspect is still violently sobbing on to the shoulder of that youthful nurse. Not my father, who is miles away back home in Indianapolis, perhaps still oblivious to this tragedy. This unfamiliar man is. I don't know why this bothers me so much, but it does, and there's nothing I can do about it except have the decency to attempt masking it.

"Thank you for letting me know." I squeak.

"No problem. Do you still feel sleepy, or would you like me to get Ellen to fetch you some sedatives?" I assume Ellen is the nurse that had shadowed him and my mother when they first arrived.

"Yeah, sedatives would be good." I decide, reluctant to meet with anymore strangers today but also determined not to be awake when this information finally sinks in and takes its toll.

A few moments later, the anonymous doctor leaves and Ellen arrives. She is a meek, mousy woman in her early twenties, with a petite structure and hair the color of baked mud. With an awkward smile, she hands me the two circular pills and cup of water she is holding. For a second, she just watches me, memorized. It creeps me out big time. But just as I am about to attempt to subtly say something, I notice the teardrops beginning to fall and her lips beginning to shake. Seeing I am alarmed by her reaction, she presses her lips together and gives me which I think is meant to be a reassuring grin. "I'm so sorry." She mumbles, before exploding in to tears once more and fleeing from the room.

It seems, I think inwardly, that everybody seems to be falling apart due to the revelation of my illness, but me. I later come to realize, that this is because the people that fall the hardest, are the ones that refuse to accept reality.


End file.
